riveted my attention. It is the famous old Jacobean grange of
High Gable, one mile on the farther side of Oxshott, and less
than half a mile from the scene of the tragedy. The other
mansions belonged to prosaic and respectable people who live far
aloof from romance. But Mr. Henderson, of High Gable, was by all
accounts a curious man to whom curious adventures might befall.
I concentrated my attention, therefore, upon him and his
household.

"A singular set of people, Watson--the man himself the most
singular of them all. I managed to see him on a plausible
pretext, but I seemed to read in his dark, deepset, brooding eyes
that he was perfectly aware of my true business. He is a man of
fifty, strong, active, with iron-gray hair, great bunched black
eyebrows, the step of a deer and the air of an emperor--a fierce,
masterful man, with a red-hot spirit behind his parchment face.
He is either a foreigner or has lived long in the tropics, for he
is yellow and sapless, but tough as whipcord. His friend and
secretary, Mr. Lucas, is undoubtedly a foreigner, chocolate
brown, wily, suave, and catlike, with a poisonous gentleness of
speech. You see, Watson, we have come already upon two sets of
foreigners--one at Wisteria Lodge and one at High Gable--so our
gaps are beginning to close.

"These two men, close and confidential friends, are the centre of
the household; but there is one other person who for our
immediate purpose may be even more important. Henderson has two
children--girls of eleven and thirteen. Their governess is a
Miss Burnet, an Englishwoman of forty or thereabouts. There is
also one confidential manservant. This little group forms the